Persistence
by Amazon Life
Summary: "She calls out to me, asks me to open the door, to let her in, to talk to her. After a few days, I wonder if she still believes I ever will. Regardless, she always tries, she always asks. She is always met with silence." (aka: How we all wish 4x01/the door scene had ended!)


**Parts of this were written before 4x01 actually aired, but after the spoilers about certain scenes had come out. The story incorporates some of those, but not exactly how they happened... and there is a twist, of course. I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

><p>I storm out of the diner and she comes after me, apologies rushing through her lips, but I don't want to hear any of it. I don't want to hear a word from the woman who, time and time again, finds a way to ruin the things that bring me joy, finds a way to take the people I love away from me. This one time, no amounts of reminding myself that I have forced her to grow up receiving even less love than me will suffice. All I want is to be angry at her, to hate her, to blame her for yet again ruining my happiness; and she is making that a lot harder than it should probably be by looking so honestly sorry, so I hate her for that as well.<p>

Somehow, I find it in me to walk away. To simply go back home before I do something that will ruin all the progress I've been making. Away from all the eyes watching me, I can finally allow myself to break; as soon as the door closes behind me, I let myself slide to the floor and cry every ounce of anger and pain and betrayal out of me. But she's there, knocking on the very door my back is leaning on, and I have to stifle my sobs because I have already been humiliated enough in one night, and it hurts so much that I barely hear what she's saying. After a while, I realize it is all silent again, and figure she has probably left. Part of what I feel is relief; another part is disappointment, that I try to place on the thief so that I will not be forced to admit that I am hurt over realizing she gave up.

But she comes back the next day. And the day after. And the day after. Every single day without fail, she comes back. Almost like a ritual, she rings the doorbell, waits a minute or two, then knocks a few times. She knows I am home; everyone in this God-forsaken town knows I haven't left the house since what happened. She calls out for me, asks me to open the door, to let her in, to talk to her. After a few days, I wonder if she still believes I ever will. Regardless, she always tries, she always asks. She is always met with silence.

She apologizes, over and over and over again, every single day. She says a thousand times that she never intended to hurt me, that she didn't know. As if her knowing would have changed anything; as if it would have stopped her from saving someone's life simply to avoid hurting me. She is every bit a member of her family, even though she was not raised in it; we both know she would always do the right thing. Still, I know there is sincerity in her words, I know she wishes she had not hurt me; it is not enough to make me forgive her, or even acknowledge her presence at all.

Every day, she asks me what I want her to do. She begs me time and time again to tell her how to fix it. She offers to do anything at all if it will make me happy again, I only need to tell her what. To that I would answer, if I could. If I knew the answer. If I knew how to fix it, how to fix myself, I would tell her. But I am past believing I could ever be fixed, especially with the memories of my last try at that still so fresh.

She goes on and on, asking, begging, pleading. I never answer, I never open the door, I never make a sound to indicate that I am listening at all. But I always do. Day after day, I sit with my back against the wall, hearing every word, wishing with all I have that any of it will bring me some comfort, and I cry silently. When she eventually leaves, I cry harder.

Then I give myself time to calm down, get up and open the door. There is always something there, a bag of groceries, a meal from Granny's, brownies that I know have been made by her mother. I tell myself that it's the least she could do, to make sure I have enough to not need to venture out of the safety of my mansion and face a town of people who are rejoicing over my pain. But I know most people would never bother to do anything like that.

One day, before she leaves, she says, with the confidence that comes with her blood, that she will figure something out. Even if I don't tell what to do, even if I don't say a word, she will find a way to fix what she's done. She reminds me she is the Savior, and she will not rest until she gives me my happy ending. She will not give up trying. And suddenly it strikes me that nobody has ever been so concerned with making me happy... not even the man because of whom I had again come to believe happiness would never work out for me in the end. It strikes me that no one has ever made this kind of effort for me; no one has ever tried so hard for me; no one has ever wanted to help me so much; no one before her has ever adamantly refused to give up on me.

The next day, she does the same thing all over again. The same steps to something that is already becoming almost a tradition. Except that, when she again asks me if there is anything at all that she can do to fix things... I for once make myself get up and open the door to face her. She looks at me with such a surprised expression, equal parts relief and fear, waiting to see what I will do next. When I tell her there is actually something she can do, she assumes a stoic air and nods curtly, assuring me once more that she will do whatever it takes. I can tell she is probably expecting to be sent away from the town, from her parents, from her son – our son. In a way, it makes me feel sorry for her, it makes me ache to see her so sure she will be punished, and so ready to take it for my sake. But it makes me all the more sure of my next step.

I look straight at her and ask for the only thing that I know will give me any chance at a happy ending. I try to not let my voice tremble when I say it, to not let any of my deep-seated insecurities show, to not acknowledge how risky of a step this is. I try to not let a single tear spill.

"Love me."

It comes out as a whisper; it's the most I can muster. I am broken, I have been for longer than I can remember, and the woman in front of me is the only person who has cared enough to want to fix me. And maybe, she is the only person who can. I know I am placing a lot on her hands, I know I might be asking her for something impossible, she might not be able to simply force herself to love me just because I am asking her to do so. But I already think there is not much hope left for me; a negative response could not make it much worse than it already is.

I am not sure what reaction I am expecting, but I prepare myself for a bad one anyway. Instead, her features soften. The smile that reaches her lips is so tiny it almost goes unnoticed, but it is still sweet. Her eyes, that had become cold and distant while waiting for her sentence, melt again, and she looks at me with such warmth. There is kindness plastered all over her face, the sort that is never really directed at me by anyone else. There is understanding, like she knows exactly what I am asking of her, and why, and how that would help.

"I already do."

She says it firmly. No room for doubts, no hesitation, no trembling at all in her voice. And when she pulls me to her, gently, and lets her lips softly touch mine, and her arms find their way around me... indeed, there is love. And inside my chest, there is happiness.


End file.
